Song

     Come to me in any shape! 
     As a victor crown’d with vine,
     In thy curls the clustering grape, —
     Or a vanquished slave: 
     ’Tis thy coming that I crave,
     And thy folding serpent twine,
     Close and dumb;
     Ne’er from that would I escape;
     Come to me in any shape! 
     Only come!

     Only come, and in my breast
     Hide thy shame or show thy pride;
     In my bosom be caressed,
     Never more to part;
     Come into my yearning heart;
     I, the serpent, golden-eyed,
     Twine round thee;
     Twine thee with no venomed test;
     Absence makes the venomed nest;
     Come to me!

     Come to me, my lover, come! 
     Violets on the tender stem
     Die and wither in their bloom,
     Under dewy grass;
     Come, my lover, or, alas! 
     I shall die, shall die like them,
     Frail and lone;
     Come to me, my lover, come! 
     Let thy bosom be my tomb: 
     Come, my own!

     The shipwreck of Idomeneus

     Swept from his fleet upon that fatal night
     When great Poseidon’s sudden-veering wrath
     Scattered the happy homeward-floating Greeks
     Like foam-flakes off the waves, the King of Crete
     Held lofty commune with the dark Sea-god. 
     His brows were crowned with victory, his cheeks
     Were flushed with triumph, but the mighty joy
     Of Troy’s destruction and his own great deeds
     Passed, for the thoughts of home were dearer now,
     And sweet the memory of wife and child,
     And weary now the ten long, foreign years,
     And terrible the doubt of short delay —
     More terrible, O Gods! he cried, but stopped;
     Then raised his voice upon the storm and prayed. 
     O thou, if injured, injured not by me,
     Poseidon! whom sea-deities obey
     And mortals worship, hear me! for indeed
     It was our oath to aid the cause of Greece,
     Not unespoused by Gods, and most of all
     By thee, if gentle currents, havens calm,
     Fair winds and prosperous voyage, and the Shape
     Impersonate in many a perilous hour,
     Both in the stately councils of the Kings,
     And when the husky battle murmured thick,
     May testify of services performed! 
     But now the seas are haggard with thy wrath,
     Thy breath is tempest! never at the shores
     Of hostile Ilium did thy stormful brows
     Betray such fierce magnificence! not even
     On that wild day when, mad with torch and glare,
     The frantic crowds with eyes like starving wolves
     Burst from their ports impregnable, a stream
     Of headlong fury toward the hissing deep;
     Where then full-armed I stood in guard, compact
     Beside thee, and alone, with brand and spear,
     We held at bay the swarming